Bound in Blight and Bliss
by MB234
Summary: You weren't exactly hiding from the Mirkwood Royal Guard, more accurately you were just evading them... When the Reader gets captured and taken to Thranduil's court she gets more than she bargained for. Will the cold, imposing, handsome Elvenking be her doom, or will this fiery, unmannerly halfling be his salvation? Thranduil x reader
1. Sable and Silver

You weren't exactly _hiding_ from the Mirkwood Royal Guard, more accurately you were just _evading_ them.

Hiding insinuated fear, and you were certainly not afraid, just majorly inconvenienced. Tactful evasion; that's what you specialized in, and indeed you had been successfully dodging them for a few months now, luring them just close enough to convince them that they were closing in before you'd slip gleefully out of their ever-reaching grasp. You could always hear them, they were exceptionally loud for fully blooded wood-elves, crashing through the thick brush, skulking around the smooth-barked trees, their masterfully carved bows notched with razor sharp arrows and their high pointed ears keen. Indelibly you'd be crouched in the wood far above them, limbs curled around the sturdy arm of an ancient arbor, your breath still as an icy winters morn, your own gently pointed ears twitching as you listened intently to their fading steps.

You knew why they hunted you; technically you shouldn't be alive, your very existence was contraband in this kingdom. You were the product of an Elven woman and a mortal man's marriage, a relationship not held in high favor by the Elvenking, and further doomed by the fates to end in tragedy, and so it indelibly had. After enjoying a short, but happy and fulfilling childhood with you, both of your parents had died suddenly within weeks of each other when you were hardly even a teenager, leaving you to fend for yourself. You'd wandered from town to town across Middle Earth, picking up odd skills and making a hint of coin wherever you could. You had hastily discovered that your hybrid looks usually turned far too many heads for your liking, the potential dangers that those lingering stares and meaningful glances held in their glinting depths forcing you to quickly learn how to expertly blend in, to seamlessly assimilate. You grew your thick, shining hair long enough to braid or sweep over the telling tips of your ears and kohled your eyes a stark, smudged black to disguise their distinctly Elven shape and hue. Your garb was indicative of a ranger, from the short, coarse cloak that snapped about your calves and rippled around your sim shoulders to reveal teasing glimpses of a molded, formfitting leather corset and matching skintight breeches, both traded for six moons worth of stable cleaning, down to the rough, travel weary boots that hugged your slender feet. The human half of your parentage had gifted you with a markedly un-elven like short stature, but your mother's heritage had assured that your form still held all the standard grace of her fair people. Thus, you had to work to mask the lilting gait of your limbs when in public, and delighted in exploiting them to your formidable advantage when evading less than desirable forces like the ones hot on your heels now.

As you slipped nimbly through the brush that clung close to the forest floor, the wide sweeping ferns and twisting vines seemed to leap out of your way to allow you to glide unhindered between them. You were careful not to step unkindly on their roots, for you knew they could feel the intent in your agile, urgent gait, your reverence and excitement thrumming down between your toes, deep into the soil below, and as if in gratitude for your forethought they cleared from your path easily. In times like these you were immensely grateful for your mother's light-footedness and deep Elven spirituality; you couldn't imagine being on the run, or running at all for that matter, without the connection that her parentage provided you with nature. And better still, your father's influence had assured that you weren't above playing dirty, like say, by rigging a few traps to harmlessly ensnare some of the Mirkwood King's more tenacious guards.

It was their own fault really, they had surprised you while you supped, their footsteps appearing as if out of nowhere, forcing you to hesitantly abandon the rabbit you'd skewered on the spit that twirled dolorously above the small fire you'd painstakingly made and dart hastily into the thick wood. Normally you would have had time to climb up into a nearby tree and wait patiently for them to clear out, but you'd been so starving and engrossed in your bountiful catch that you hadn't noticed their approach. Damn, maybe all this incessant running was beginning to dull your keen senses. That was a dangerous prospect for a vagabond like you.

You didn't dare steal a glance behind you, for judging by the crescendo in their rhythmic steps could tell that the guards were gaining on you. Willing the speed and strength of the roaring seas gusting zephyrs to fill your limbs you ran harder, more urgently into the thick wood that spread out endlessly before you, narrowly missing many of the wide trunks that peppered the sun dappled thicket. The increased exertion began to catch up with you despite your young age and Elven blood, the struggle making your breath rattle harshly from your lungs. Despite the gravity of the situation you could still take a moment to appreciate the pure _joy_ that your freedom afforded you; the warm wind whistling through your trailing hair, the burning heat searing deep in your nimble limbs, the fierce adrenaline curling in your chest, bursting bravely through your collarbones. You felt whole, complete, _alive_ , and damn the soul that would attempt to take that feeling from you.

At that very moment a glint of gold so pale it was nearly white caught in the corner of your eye, trapping your heedful attention. A sudden jolt of real panic sizzled through your veins then as you wondered incredulously if the Monarch of Mirkwood himself had joined in on your hunt this day. You'd heard rumors of the Woodland King; of his cold, stoic demeanor and handsome, starlit countenance, of his steadfast devotion and grief for his dead wife and his involvement in the reclaiming of the Dwarven kingdom of Erebor. Would the King himself really care so much about one random vagrant that he'd come to see her captured himself? Why did that thought cause heated, molten sparks of something bright and igneous to sear to life deep in your belly? Why did it have the corners of your parted lips curling traitorously and your hasty steps slowing fractionally, inexplicably?

You couldn't stop the gasp that fell from your lips when you felt the sharp kiss an arrow sinking suddenly into the flesh of your right bicep, causing you to slow marginally. Though it was just a flesh wound the pain was intense, making you stumble uncharacteristically on a root that your uninjured self could have avoided with little effort. You panted hard as you shifted hastily to your knees, bringing the shaking fingers of one hand up to test the tender, smarting flesh of your arm, feeling the slick drip of crimson blood from the wound pooling hotly on your digits, your trembling touch ghosting along the invading shaft of the arrow impeded loosely in your skin.

A wicked curse slipped from your lips as you watched that spill of white blond hair draw closer from the corner of your eye, that lofty head burning, searing like an alabaster flame in your vision. You had barely the space of a heartbeat to try to rise to your feet before the cold bite of a slim knife was pressed menacingly to your exposed throat.

You stilled instantly, noting from the fine make of the blade and the steady hand of its wielder that it was someone highborn, royal even. _Had_ the King actually come to your capture this day? You suddenly questioned what exactly the Royal Guard had been hunting you for; were you just a mere trespasser or was there more at play here beneath the roiling surface of the late summer leaves?

"Move and my knife will slide clean and true through your neck."

The voice that spoke was young but undeniably male, thrumming with stately power, filled with an ease of command that further convinced you that this was a royal, if not the King then a member of his court. You reluctantly assented to the stranger's commands, preferring your admittedly appealing throat to remain intact, though you did dare to chance a sideways glance at the face of the antagonist at your side. The features that met your curious, if not disquieted gaze were young and handsome, though they didn't hold any of the weight or wisdom that you'd expect a King's to. There was still a hint of boyish charm around his cheekbones, of mirth dancing in his intense, celadon eyes that belayed his age. You weren't sure how you knew, but you were certain that this wasn't the King. Then by the Valar, who was he?

"What now, my Prince? Kill her?" One of the nearby guards asked, his deadly bow notched and raised, one of his lethal arrows pointed directly at your pounding heart. You threw him a venomous glare, you recognized his dirty blond hair and slightly crooked nose, he'd been on your trail for at least a few weeks now, but his gaze remained steadfast and reverent on his liege. So this was the Prince of Mirkwood…

He was a bit shorter than you expected. What, the Elvenking couldn't be bothered to show up himself, so he sent his son to fetch his toys for him? That errant thought sent a bolt of annoyance skittering in your chest, making renewed fire burst in your veins. Your huffed in deep, steeling breaths, working hard to keep your stirring muscles from lashing out, your raised fingers itching to reach behind your neck to grasp the twin daggers strapped on your back, hidden beneath the thick fall of your plaited hair. You refused to be captured, even if that meant you'd be killed in the process. Your freedom was of paramount import to you, you were firmly convinced you'd _die_ if you were forced to be some arrogant, incurious King's quarry.

"No," The Mirkwood Prince said, his head canting to the side as that azure gaze swept over your admittedly travel ragged form, his eyes glinting with something close to appraisal, "Take her to my father. He will want to see her."

 _Ha!_ Over your dead body! Huffing in a quick, emboldening breath you reached, lightning fast, for one of the cutlasses ready at your back, raising your hand to plunge the wicked blade deep into your breast, but that damned, stars accursed Prince was just a tick faster than you and the iron bands of his fingers closed around your wrist before you could sink the dagger home. Something like sympathy flashed in his clear gaze before he spoke.

"I'm afraid it's not quite that easy, female."

Blind, red rage flashed behind your eyes, true panic and fear bubbling in your chest, spurring you to reach up to pluck the arrow from your shoulder, intent on using its barbed tip to lance clean through your own eye, when Crooked Nose raised the blunt edge of his bow and struck you full force on the temple, making stars erupt from the corners of your vision. You felt your balance flee suddenly from your person and as those tell-tale tinges of black began to seep into view you grasped pleadingly at the strong fingers that the Prince had wrapped around your wrist.

 _Kill me! Don't take me alive!_ Your mind railed, instincts rioting valiantly against the fading strength of your faulty body.

You tried to scream, to thrash, to _fight_ but your world was fading too fast, slipping from beneath your feet like the ebbing tide, ripped suddenly, cruelly from you. The very last thing you registered before everything around you, the trees and forest that you loved, the ancient arbors that you made your home in, deserted you for the inky blackness of unconsciousness was the Mirkwood Prince sharing a long, appreciative look with that infernal guard of his and muttering, "You cannot say she doesn't have spirit."

And then you knew no more.


	2. Ash and Amethyst

As far as dungeons went, the Elven cell that you found yourself sealed in was far from dank and depraved. In fact, it was dry, arid even, the mild air parched and yet remarkably drafty. All in all, this was not the worst way you had ever spent an evening. You had arisen here in the Mirkwood prison with fleeting, clouded memories of exactly how you'd arrived, a dull ache throbbing smartly in your sore temple and your numerous, treasured weapons regrettably missing from their respective hiding places on your body. The Elves had taken every last trace of armaments that you had concealed on your person, even snatching the small, relatively harmless blades stashed in the lining of your boots. You frowned deeply to find that your pack, the beaten, shabby truss that held every possession that you had inherited, borrowed or stolen in this world, was missing as well. The Woodland Elves were nothing if not thorough.

You were left in just your dusty cloak, tight leather corset and matching breeches, somehow feeling more naked and exposed without your weapons than if the Fair Folk had simply stripped you right down to your bare skin. Groaning from the seemingly momentous effort that it took to rouse yourself to full consciousness, you sat up, painstakingly slipping off your worn boots and rubbing your tired feet as you gathered yourself, thinking carefully about your next steps. After the roaring blaze of emotion that had thundered through you prior to your untimely capture your beating chest felt hollow, ringing bitterly with the cavernous echoes of defeat. Your limbs ached to stretch, to burn with the blazing bliss of freedom that you had enjoyed for so long. You fought back a deep sigh, not allowing your weeping heart to fully resign itself to your dark fate, adamant that despite these seemingly dismal circumstances, this was not where your story ended.

You were still alive, and you had your wits about you. With the right opportunity and a healthy dose of luck you could make it out of this intact, maybe even better than when you'd started. After all, you _had_ been getting sorely tired of sleeping in trees and supping on Elderberry's. Your stomach rumbled for meat and wine, for sustenance beyond what you alone could forage. You felt a sudden stab of longing for the hare that you'd had to abandon earlier. You imagined it was cooked to perfection right about now.

Sighing, forcing your frazzled mind to other things, you took a brief moment to scrub a hand over your face, feeling all the nameless grime and dirt caked on your skin. You tried to see the haggard figure that you cut just then, hair swept haphazardly from your face in a twist secured at the crown of your head, the long remaining strands woven carelessly into a plait that lay heavy over one slumped shoulder, clothes rumpled and worn with age and the demands of life on the run, eyes saddled with dark, heavy bags, mouth set in a grim line. You wouldn't want to be in the company of others looking as worn and weary as you currently did.

At the thought of future social engagements bright, stark memory sparked, hot and fierce, from the depths of your addled mind and you remembered suddenly the parting words of the flaunting, sonorous Mirkwood Prince…

 _"No," The Prince said, his head canting to the side as that azure gaze swept over your admittedly travel ragged form, his eyes glinting with something close to appraisal, "Take her to my father. He will want to see her."_

Your eyes snapped open wide with novel surprise and rage, your lips parting as you gasped anew. You were to meet the King! And if the lateness of the hour was any indication, then your audience would be soon. A fresh wave of stubbornness rang through you as that realization sunk in, making your arms cross over your chest and your brow furrow deeply. If his Royal Highness thought that you were some slave that he could torment and torture to his liking, then he was sorely mistaken. You'd rather perish than belong to any male, King or otherwise. No, you'd escape with your freedom or die trying.

And yet, why did the lofty prospect of meeting the revered, imposing sovereign that you'd heard so many glorious, chimerical tales of spark a small flame of excitement deep within you, in those hidden places you didn't dare explore, in those half-forgotten hollows where bright tendrils of hope bloomed gloriously within you.

You tried valiantly to turn away from those resilient impulses, from that iron clad, whimsical curiosity that whispered in your breast, but try as you might you couldn't quite stop the fingers that rose to smooth your hair and comb through your tangled locks, or the forearm that swiped across your face, loosing much of the dirt from your features. You huffed, annoyed with yourself, but still helpless to admit that the shadow of this King was a long one.

At that moment an auburn haired guard strode into the dungeons, his booted feet ringing in the empty, cavernous space. He came to a stop before the door to your cell, one hand resting comfortably on the pommel of his sword, the other holding a glinting key, a glimmering promise of your possible liberty.

"Stand to the back of your cell, prisoner." His voice was high and somewhat grating, not nearly as pleasant as the Princes, nor the King's you imagined. You frowned as that last thought flitted traitorously through your mind even as you obeyed the guards' commands, though your servitude was more out of manipulation than real submission. You could easily feign obedience until you found an appropriate window for escape.

Once you'd heeded his words the guard unlocked the heavy, creaking door and gestured for you to come forward, a pair of sturdy manacles rattling cruelly at his belt. It stung your very soul to have your hands bound behind your back, but you let the infernal soldier complete his bitter task, somewhat soothed by the knowledge that this fettered state was only temporary.

As you were led through the sprawling, winding passages of the Elvenking's halls you marveled shamelessly at the expert craftsmanship of the Kingdom that lay before you. Wide, sunlight corridors and tall wooden pillars made up the great palace, interspersed with leveled platforms that looked as though they were naturally formed, but you were sure the Elven builders had designed that with intention. In truth, you were amazed with this dwelling; it held an abundance of finery the likes of which you had never known in all your hard, tragedy filled life. You found your mouth hanging shamelessly slack as you reached the throne room. You were so enthralled by the stately abode before you that you had nearly forgotten the purpose for your journey through it, though you were poignantly reminded by the harsh rapping of the couriers' staff at the throne room entrance.

As the guard that led you here unchained your wrists, obviously sure that you wouldn't try to flee in the King's presence, you found your heart suddenly pounding in your throat, your palms slickening with sweat and your pulse racing briskly. You were to meet the Elvenking in mere moments, and then in the space of a few heartbeats your bitter fate would be decided. You wished fervently then that you had a weapon of some sort, even a measly length of wire with which to conceal beneath your sleeve for protection, but these Elves were vexingly careful and irritatingly cynical of all outsiders, as they well should be. They didn't afford you as much as an inch, knowing full well that you'd take a mile.

You would have mulled over that provoking thought further if you hadn't at that very moment spied the Elvenking himself, sprawled out almost lazily on his immense, finely crafted wooden throne, his cerulean gaze downturned in apparent boredom, ring bedecked hands busy with some scrap of parchment that no doubt held titillating figures of his Kingdoms current formidable wealth and status.

You took the precious, unobserved moments before the herald announced your arrival to marvel unabashedly at him without any hints of shame or hidden intent. Even in your resentful, irate state you could admit that the King of the Elves was _stunning_ ; smooth falls of white-blond hair tumbled down a wide, brocade clad chest to sway gracefully at his trim, sturdy waist, the fine, heavy robe that sat about his expansive shoulders fell carelessly open at his parted knees to showcase wide, graspable hips and long, strong legs splayed casually at the foot of his carven throne. Numerous rings glittered about his long lithe fingers, each one catching your eye playfully as he flexed his wide grasp. Atop his pale, graceful head sat a crown of spiked branches interspersed with ripe looking berries and leaves, both beautiful and dangerous, alluring and deadly, much like the imposing monolith of a male himself.

The breath was swiftly stolen from your lungs when that accursed herald rapped his staff twice, securely capturing the King's attention, causing that intense, ethereal gaze to fall indelibly upon you. You knew that Elves possessed an indescribable, otherworldly power, a celestial pull of sorts, after all you'd used it to your own bountiful advantage in the past, to aid in the securing of a horse from a human or the swindling of a Dwarf out of his dinner, but due to your contraband status you'd had limited contact with others of your ilk and their own spellbinding influences. Now, trapped by the Elvenking's tenuous, enrapturing, icy gaze, you could finally say that you understood the effects.

Your breath reluctantly returned to your breast when he rose to his full, astounding height, impressive even for an Elf, and drifted down the steps of the dais towards you, your comparative compact size making you feel utterly vulnerable and defenseless in the weight of his immense shadow. You had the sudden urge to back up a pace or two, but that unflinching stubbornness roared to life deep in your chest once more, adding steadying, leaden weight to your unflinching stance. You couldn't quite break your gaze from his though, fixed and thrumming as it was upon you.

"So you are the mysterious stranger skulking in my woods?" The King's voice was low and magnanimous, warm as a late summer's breeze and tinged with just a hint of the frigid bite of the heart of winter. You didn't dare reply, and you weren't even sure that you could if you'd wanted to, what with the way your heart was cloying your chest, hammering in your throat.

"I gather that you are unaware of the solitude I've commanded of my Kingdom due to the danger of our times," He continued, tone assured and almost rhetorical, "Otherwise you would not venture to trespass in Mirkwood."

He circled you like a vulture as he spoke, finely made robes swishing imperceptibly on the floor as they trailed bygone behind him, barely clinging to the lofty post that his board shoulders provided. You weren't quite sure what you had expected from the King of the Elves, but being in his imposing, regal presence had dashed any and all preconceived notions to pieces before your very eyes.

He leaned in suddenly, the fresh scents of musky pine leaves and sweet, sultry sap washing over your ragged senses, making you gasp in a shocked breath that only deepened as you felt the King's lithe, adept fingers whirling unexpectedly around your temple, tracing the mark that his guards' bow had imprinted upon your tender skin. You didn't breathe as those digits traced that wicked pattern marring your flesh before following the line of your hair down the side of your head, swirling adeptly to tuck a few smooth strands of hair behind your gently pointed ear, the action both acknowledging his soldiers violence and exposing the undeniable proof of your crimes.

"That must have hurt." He spoke, his tone almost a murmur, his deep, smooth voice spilling hotly over your neck to trip down your spine, making warm, tingly shivers erupt over your skin. Whether he was referring to the bruise kissing your temple or the numerous silver rings looping the multiple piercings in your offending ears you weren't quite sure, but you didn't reply regardless. The bite of his heavy rings against your skin was frigid, nearly as cold as the temperate flesh of his fingers, and twice as icy as the pallid gleam behind his pale eyes. His intense gaze boring into you filled you with the strangest urge to squirm, to escape back into the shaded trees that you'd spent the past few months traversing. At least there you were free from the handsome King and his perplexing, inveterate caresses. You weren't sure whether to bow in gratitude or beg in fear.

You weren't particularly well versed in monarchical etiquette, but you were quite sure that it would be considered rude to slap a King's hand away, so you settled for a heavy swallow that worked the taught cords of your exposed throat and the darting of your eyes to the backs of his guards that stood stoic and unseeing by the great wooden pillars.

When your gaze fell upon the expertly crafted sword swaying by his side you suddenly wondered if he'd grant your obstinate, macabre wish and run that finely forged blade through your chest, right into your hammering heart, and spare you the abiding torture and slow death that your very existence guaranteed you.

"Aren't you going to kill me?" You questioned, the impending prospect of your death spurring you to reclaim your voice, though it thrummed with hot, molten anger and was tinged with a healthy dose of pallid fear.

"Ah, she speaks!" He drawled, a heart stopping, if not sarcastic smile spanning his handsome features before they settled quickly back into their amused, sardonic equilibrium, "You would rather die than be captured?" The Elvenking's low, thrumming voice filled the sun dappled throne room easily, true curiosity tinged with just a hint of impression banked in the drawling, purred tones of his inquiry.

You took a step towards him, spanning the scant distance between you so that you stood toe to toe with him, and immediately you heard the sound of a dozen swords being drawn simultaneously from their scabbards. He reached out a scopic hand to still his guards where they stood, poised and ready, his eyes never leaving yours as they glittered with entertained curiosity.

"Gladly," You rasped in reply, ignoring the frantic, suspended energy skittering in the room around you, tilting your head up sharply to hold his lofty gaze, a task made increasingly difficult by his towering, gargantuan height. You swallowed hard when he leaned down towards you, his alabaster hair glinting in the sunlight, crystalline eyes sparkling with something that flitted dangerously close to enthrallment. Those full, inviting lips parted as he took you in, seeming to measure the seriousness of your answer, and under his scrutiny you worked to hold your features firm, stoking the fervent fire behind your eyes with thoughts of the subjugation that could potentially befall you.

After a few long heartbeats in which his dizzying closeness cloyed your poor, over encumbered senses he straightened back up to his full imposing height, that intense, luminous gaze finally breaking from yours as he turned to stride to a table sitting on the far side of the room that bore a fine crystal decanter and a number of gossamer spun chalices. Once released from the colossal weight of his gaze you slumped visibly, raising a shaking hand to your forehead to swipe at the loose strands falling there. Damn you straight to the fires of Mordor, being in the presence of this huge, virile male _did_ something to you, something that had a fire roaring in your belly and a fluttering heat flaring on your cheekbones. Though whether it was attraction or annoyance, you couldn't yet say, but you heartily suspected that it skirted the fine line etched somewhere between the two.

"I'm sure you are aware of this Kingdom's formalities concerning _Peredhil_ such as yourself," The King said, referencing the Sindarian term for your half elven, half mortal parentage as he poured two hearty glasses of wine, "Under my current rule they are not permitted here. But, given the gravity and desolation of our current time I find myself feeling amicable." He turned back to you then, a glinting goblet balanced in each expansive hand, thick robes swishing softly as he strode back towards you. You surveyed him with keen, watchful eyes, noting the calculating gleam in his gaze.

"It has become apparent that I have need for a traveler such as yourself," The King continued after taking a sip from his glass, that encompassing gaze no doubt catching the way your eyes fell and lingered on the long, graceful lines of his throat, "You have been to many towns across Middle Earth, yes?"

"Indeed I have," You replied, pausing before adding somewhat sourly, "Your Majesty." For some reason that lofty title had you frowning, the jagged awkwardness of the fine moniker slipping on your unrefined tongue striking a dissonant note of enigmatic discord in your mind, though the small smirk that the King flashed you in response to your pleasantry did help to soothe some of your internal tumult somewhat.

"And have you seen the darkness infringing on the borders of this land? Have you come across the foul creatures that lurk in my woods?"

At the mention of those grim, shadowed beasts you felt an uneasy shiver trip down your spine, words of ancient wickedness seeming to whisper aphotic curses at your back and shift maliciously in the slim shadows of the sun filled room. You felt goosebumps erupt on your skin at the thought, and you scowled deeply as you met the Elvenking's gaze, your disdain of that evil malice momentarily overshadowing the intimidating impression that the King made.

"I have, my Lord," You replied, a husky contempt coloring your voice as you spoke, "They are abhorrent things, brimming with evil intent, and they are spreading." You hesitated before continuing, sweeping your eyes contemplatively across the Elvenking's attentive form, momentarily judging if you should divulge possibly sensitive information about yourself in exchange for the value of your life. After a moment you deemed it necessary and continued, "I would not have ventured so close to your Great Hall if the vermin hadn't encroached upon me. They have been coming down from the North, though in truth I didn't expect them to dare to cross into your lands. I have killed many of them; their foul blood runs black like tar."

The King seemed momentarily impressed by your ample knowledge, the surprised expression gracing his handsome features belaying his shock at the depth of your usefulness. You had to work to suppress the pleasant plume of warmth that billowed in your chest in response to that magnanimous visage, though you couldn't deny that you were suddenly immensely glad that you had taken the liberty of cleaning up your dirt caked skin and loose hair before this encounter, however brief your efforts might have been.

"My guards have been driving off these creatures for months now and not a single one of them has been able to ascertain their origin," The King spoke, gliding closer to you as if he couldn't quite stop himself, an air of appreciation shimmering in his celadon gaze as it fixed upon you, making your heart flip pitifully in your chest, "And here a slight of form, fiery spirited Halfling has divulged more useful information to me in a matter of minutes than the whole of my scouting force has in months." As he studied you intently, appearing to try to divine the truth of your intentions from the astonished expression no doubt banked on your slightly confused features, he seemed to decide upon something, to come to a paramount decision regarding your fate. "I offer you a position here at my court; be my advisor, inform me of the things you have seen in your travels, and I will grant you pardon for the crimes of your blood and bane."

You could do nothing but gape open mouthed, utterly shocked down to your very core as the King regarded you, waiting patiently for your response to his acquisition. For a moment you considered the consequences if you refused, grimly picturing the towering Elf shrugging dispassionately at your refusal and unsheathing that majestic sword from its sheathe to promptly separate your head from your slim shoulders. A ripple of disquiet rang through you at the thought, and after dispelling that unpleasant image you squared your chest and met his clear, celadon gaze unflinchingly.

The steely intent set there in your eyes must have convinced him of your answer, for before you even spoke he smiled wide and warm, shifting to hold out the untouched diaphanous glass resting in his other hand towards you in offering. "Do you accept, _Peredhil_?"

Your eyes lingered on him, sliding down his form with barely concealed appreciation and clear apprehension settled in your gaze before it snapped back up to meet his, the lilting promise of your continued life spurring you to confidence. After a slight hesitation you reached out to slip your fingers around the smooth surface of the chalice, delighting in the sumptuous feel of it, delicate and exquisite, in your palm.

"Yes," You replied softly, gazing up at him through your lashes, "I accept your most generous offer, your Majesty." The smirk curving those sinful lips widened imperceptibly before he offered his own glass to you in a toast, one which you met with increasing excitement, before sipping the fine wine glinting in your cup. You utterly failed to suppress the low moan that tumbled from your throat at the taste of the liquid hitting your tongue; you didn't think you'd ever sampled a finer spirit in the whole of your life, and you gulped hard to find the eyes of the King glowing hotly with something lingering suspiciously close to prurience in response to that carnal noise falling from your parted lips.

"Since that matter is settled," The King said after a long, plethoric moment in which his intense, heated gaze caused a very different kind of warmth to bloom low and thrumming in your belly, "You must see our healers; you have an injury that needs tending to. They can see to your wound and provide you with fresh vestments." He proclaimed, gesturing with his ring bedecked fingers to the blood stained patch of canvas marring your damaged shoulder. You'd all but forgotten about the wound in the vibrant tense swelter of the encounter, but once reminded the gash began to throb painfully, robbing your attention fully and completely. You grimaced under the weight of remembered anguish.

"My son's aim is true." The King said after assessing your frowning, pain filled features, his voice intoned with something that could almost be interpreted as sympathy, "The wound will scar."

"So be it," You replied boldly, your teeth slightly gritted at the pain, your head held high as you met the King's searing celadon gaze, "It won't be the first nor, I imagine, the last." The corners of the King's smirking lips upturned at that, as if he admired your spirit, and that strange, daunting prospect sent pleasant chills skittering frantically down your spine.

"Then perhaps we shall compare scars someday, Halfling." You peered up at him through your lashes, the strangely endearing nick name making you study the almost warm glint in his icy gaze, the upturned cut of his immaculate cheekbones, the smooth curve of his sensual mouth in a new, hopeful light. If you'd been a weaker female you imagined that you might have swooned at the becoming sight.

 _"Perhaps…"_

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 _Thank you so much to all of those that have shown this fic support, I greatly appreciate the kind words! I sincerely hope that you enjoy!_


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